


Setting Fire to Our Insides

by caelestys



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2076942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelestys/pseuds/caelestys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't know why you're going through the trouble," he says mildly when Arthur returns from the kitchen with a mug of steaming soup and a pot of tea. The soup smells delicious, and Eames' mouth waters. "I'm going to be back at work by tomorrow. Right as rain. You'll see."</p><p>"No, you're not," Arthur says, climbing onto the bed and handing it to him. "You're not allowed back into the warehouse for the rest of the week. One person being sick is enough. I don't want you to spread your germs to Ariadne."</p><p>"I didn't know you cared," Eames says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Setting Fire to Our Insides

Eames wakes up on Monday morning and his throat's a little sticky. It's warm outside and he's tangled sweatily in his bedsheets, and he puts it down to the slightly off-tasting Pad Thai he had last night when he was too tired to cook. It's no reason to stay home from work, though, especially on a day where they're discussing the possibility of looping an elevator shaft back through from the penthouse level back down to the basement in the second level, which Eames will be dreaming. So he gets out of bed and brushes his teeth, climbs into a pair of trousers and tugs on a shirt. He grabs a bagel and coffee on his way to the warehouse in the hopes that getting some food in his system will shock the wooziness out of his head.

He knows something's wrong at lunch when he tries to clear his throat before making a suggestion about looped hallways, and his throat feels like a it's been liberally used as a scratching post. He clears his throat roughly, and that alone makes him want to retch his own intestines up.

Ariadne looks at him questioningly and Arthur gives him a raised eyebrow, but he waves his hand, motioning for them to carry on. Micah, their new extractor, doesn't look fazed, just asks something about the implications of physically twisting a building vertically on itself. 

By lunch time, Eames is lying on the couch with a box of tissues on the armrest. He can't breathe through his nose because it's blocked, and he can't breathe through his mouth because his throat is on fire, and being any more upright than lying flat on the couch makes him feel like throwing up.

The last thing he remembers is Ariadne pulling the roller door up and Arthur throwing a light fleece blanket over him, handing him a warm mug of tea with honey.

 

 

His sore throat has escalated to soaring heights by the time he drags himself home that afternoon, Arthur having dismissed him early after deeming him too dysfunctional to be of any use. He makes himself a cup of tea before falling asleep on the couch in between reruns of Battlestar Galactica.

He wakes up three hours later, fuzzy and feeling like something's hacking at his throat with pickaxes, to a knock on his front door.

Arthur's standing on his doorstep with a bag of groceries.

"Arthur, what -" he says muzzily, and then descends into a fit of hacking coughs.

"Don't talk," says Arthur, and brusquely pushes past Eames and into his flat. Eames is still standing stupidly in the hallway when Arthur comes back out of the kitchen, having dumped the bags.

"Eames," Arthur says, sighing. "Okay, first, go take a shower, and change out of those, you'll wrinkle your pants."

"Arthur -"

"Don't - talk! You'll irritate your throat. God, you're burning up a little bit, too. Go. Long hot shower. Then we'll talk."

"No we won't, you'll just bully me around until I do what you say," Eames says petulantly as Arthur kicks his shoes off and drapes his jacket over the couch, rolls his sleeves up, brisk and business-like.

"Someone has to," Arthur says, and pushes at him. "Go on."

 

 

Eames comes out in loose sleeping pants and a jumper, and finds Arthur in the kitchen, adding salt to a pot on the stove.

"Smells good," he says, voice husky, and Arthur fixes him with a glare.

"Stop talking," Arthur says, and Eames would complain, except that his throat really is sore and Arthur is pushing a glass of water with honey at him. "Drink."

"But I've already..." he protests weakly.

"Well, have another one, then."

Eames leans against the counter and sips from the glass. "Your bedside manner is atrocious," he says, humming, and Arthur smiles and says, "Yes, but my chicken soup is to die for, and don't you dry your hair after you shower, you imbecile, no wonder you get sick."

 

Arthur replaces the sheets on his bed as the soup simmers. "I am perfectly capable of doing this myself," Eames says, and Arthur scoffs, "Yes, but it would look like the visual colour spectrum mated with itself and had dysfunctional mutant babies."

Eames can't really complain when he's sliding into soft, crisp, colour co-ordinated sheets and Arthur is puttering around, decluttering his bedroom and compiling a stack of Eames' favourite books on his bedside table. He brings Eames his laptop and a stack of DVDs and opens the windows to air out the room, and Eames sinks into his pillows, sleepy and comfortable.

"I don't know why you're going through the trouble," he says mildly when Arthur returns from the kitchen with a mug of steaming soup and a pot of tea. The soup smells delicious, and Eames' mouth waters. "I'm going to be back at work by tomorrow. Right as rain. You'll see."

"No, you're not," Arthur says, climbing onto the bed and handing it to him. "You're not allowed back into the warehouse for the rest of the week. One person being sick is enough. I don't want you to spread your germs to Ariadne."

"I didn't know you cared," Eames says.

Arthur hums and drags his laptop onto the bed and loads up a movie. "Finding another forger would be so much effort," he says lightly, and Eames strokes the delicate curve of his wrist.

 

 

Arthur wakes him up some time later to make him take more medication (he threatens to give Eames the fake cherry liquid stuff of nightmares if he doesn't shut up and just swallow the goddamn pills). Sometime while Eames has been asleep, the sun's gone down, and he's dug out a t-shirt and boxers from Eames' closet. Eames doesn't know what it says that Arthur a) has no compunctions about sharing clothes with him, and b) Eames wants to do a great many unspeakable things to a sleep-mussed Arthur dressed in Eames' t-shirt and boxers.

Arthur presses a cool hand to his forehead, and, seemingly pleased with what he's found, nods decisively and gets up to leave the room.

Eames catches him by the wrist. "Stay here."

"I am," Arthur murmurs. "Otherwise you'd asphyxiate and die and where else am I supposed to get a forger at this time of the night?"

"No, I mean," Eames says, coughing dryly and tugging Arthur down to the bed. "Couch can't be all that comfortable."

"Well, you really should invest in a better couch," Arthur says.

"But darling, how else am I meant to lure you into my bed?"

"Oh, is that what this is all about, then?"

Eames can see the glint of Arthur's smile in the dark, and he wants with a sudden fierce aching to see that same smile in the morning sun as Arthur wakes up.

"Am I that obvious, love?"

Arthur disentangles himself and disappears down the hallway, and for a brief moment, Eames' heart sinks in despair, and then Arthur's back with a jug of water and a bottle of medication that rattles as he puts it down on the bedside table.

He pulls back the covers and slips into bed beside Eames, and Eames shivers happily as Arthur's bare toes slide against his calf.

"Don't get me sick," he says.

"I am assured that you have a nervous system of steel, but I promise I won't breathe too close to you," Eames assures him.

"And no funny business," Arthur warns, fluffing his pillow up and propping it against Eames' shoulder.

Eames is crushed.

"At least, not til you're better," Arthur says, and yawns against the pillow.

Well. Eames can live with that. 

 

(1 Oct 2010)

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of an assorted collection of stories I wrote as gifts to a very special friend back in 2010. If you like it, come say hi at my [tumblr](http://caelestys.tumblr.com)!


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